


In Night & Ice

by falsteloj



Category: Titanic (1997)
Genre: 1910s, Class Issues, Edwardian Period, England (Country), Family Drama, First Time, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Male Protagonist, Master/Servant, Original Character(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Phobias, RMS Titanic, Servants, Slash, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:58:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsteloj/pseuds/falsteloj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-indulgent romance with Titanic as the backdrop. This was written for a big bang but RL conspired to make me miss deadlines! Titled for the first German film on the sinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Night & Ice

Daniel had everything going for him.

He was a handsome man, with a tilt about the jaw reminiscent of Valdemar Psilander, or so the below stairs maids said. In addition to being fortunate in looks, he was regarded amongst his peers as an accomplished sportsman, and had distinguished himself first at Eton, and later at Cambridge. He was unquestionably his parents’ favourite. Moreover he was of such a congenial disposition and pleasant temperament that his siblings could not bring themselves to begrudge him their favour, and instead came to him for the advice and guidance they could not find from any other quarter.

He was engaged to be married to Lillian Beaumont, one of the most beautiful debutantes of her season, or so the society pages of the newspapers said. His mother was beside herself with joy at securing so fortuitous a match and his father, the son of a self-made man who had married into a title, was forced to wipe away a tear at the engagement soirée, seeing much of his younger self in the boy.

Perhaps, however, it would be more truthful to say that he had _had_ everything going for him.

Daniel succumbed to diphtheria during the stifling summer of 1911.

James stood at the graveside, sweat prickling underneath his collar as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground, and wondered how on earth he was supposed to match up to his older brother.

The youngest of them, Harold, had been brought home from Eton for the funeral, and the look he shot him later that afternoon across the drawing room was both curious and pitying. He and Daniel had both been taken ill, as Harry doubtless knew from the letters their sister Josephine sent as regular as clockwork, and even at thirteen it must have been obvious what Daniel’s death meant for James. What it meant for all of them.

The pain of the illness was still fresh in his memory, contrasting sharply with the hazy flashes of starched white linen, and the cool press of a hand against his fevered brow. It had seemed certain he wouldn’t survive, and he fancied that his parents were wishing the new mourning crepe had been ordered for his funeral.

They meant no malice by it, not really, but the reality of their financial situation was a poorly hidden secret, and Daniel’s wedding would have saved the family from ruin. In the manager’s office as in high society Daniel had already proven himself a shrewd businessman, who said all the right things and moved in all the right circles.

Yet it was he who sat there, uncomfortable in his too tight collar under the scrutiny of distant relations, and Daniel who lay in the ground, cold and forever unseeing.

“Of course, James will soon want to take a wife of his own,” his mother said to some aged aunt he only ever saw at funerals.

“And Josephine has grown into a very fine young lady,” his father added, in the same tone one might use to describe some pretty trinket or other. “We shall not want for grandchildren.”

“Drink, Sir?” a soft spoken voice asked.

James looked up into understanding brown eyes and found his throat too tight to speak, leaving him with no choice but to simply nod stupidly. Ordinarily the man would have a comforting word for him, a dry comment that would have him smile in spite of himself. Now, constrained by convention and propriety, there was no option but for the glass to be pressed silently into his hand. James watched the figure retreat, far more closely than was proper, and allowed himself to shut his eyes and imagine his shoulders unburdened, just for a moment.

* * *

Daniel had been dead exactly three months when the enormity of the situation truly hit him. The accountants sat with him and explained the figures, though the copious amount of red ink rendered the service unnecessary.

Afterwards he excused himself to the library, and hastily measured a finger of whiskey into a glass, though it wasn't his habit to drink in the daytime. It burned down his throat, and rather than think further of the awful possibilities ahead of him, he refilled the tumbler and downed the contents in a single swallow.

The alcohol diffused through his system quickly, and he sat heavily in one of the thickly upholstered chairs, certain nobody would disturb him. His father was attending to business of his own in London, and his mother and Josephine were visiting Lady Baxter, because she was ill and propriety said it was expected of them.

It startled him, then, to find a figure before him, though he had to blink before his vision cleared enough to put a name to it. The bottle, now empty, lay at his feet and, had he the sense to do so, he would have flushed at being seen in such a state.

As it was, he simply accepted the hand offered to him, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and half led, half dragged, to his bedroom.

“The best thing you can do is sleep it off,” Jenkins told him kindly, the Welsh lilt that had so fascinated him when Jenkins had entered the family's service barely discernible. He missed it, and must have said as much for Jenkins laughed, surprised, and said, “I'm sure I haven't noticed, Sir.”

His tongue felt heavy, and still words continued to fall from his lips, rambling tales he couldn't keep up with, until he stumbled and fell against the other man with force enough to take his breath away. He was pressed closer than he had ever been to another living soul, at least outside of the rugby scrum, and neither of them moved for a long moment, until his breath was coming shallowly, and he couldn't make sense of the way his head was spinning.

Jenkins was the first to break the tableau, apologising quietly and avoiding his gaze for the rest of the journey. James sobered as they reached their destination, and apologised profusely for being so much trouble, and for being such a ghastly mess. For not being Daniel.

He sank onto his – Daniel's – bed, in Daniel's former room, surrounded by reminder after reminder of his brother. His entire life was an ill fitting hand-me-down; even Jenkins had originally been taken on as Daniel's man.

“Do you miss Daniel?” He asked suddenly, though he wasn't sure why exactly. Jenkins frowned slightly, meeting his gaze for the briefest of moments,

“Naturally. But I stayed on to serve _you_.” The air appeared charged until Jenkins seemed to remember himself and added, “Sir.”

What answer he had been expecting, he could not say, but Jenkins' words warmed his soul and he fell into a dream filled slumber, only to awake in tremors and sweats that could not be attributed to the after effects of the whiskey.

The temptation to stay abed was strong, but would only invite unwanted questions. Instead he splashed cold water across his face and, at luncheon, his mother told him of a party he was to attend, and the names of several eligible young ladies he ought to make the acquaintance of; Beatrice Upton, Francine Whitaker, Mary Fitzcharles and so on, and so on, until he felt certain he should never remember any of them. Jenkins acted as proper as he ever had, though when their gaze met in the mirror before dinner Jenkins was the one to colour and look away. But it was too late, the damage had been done, and James was wise enough to understand that what had transpired had merely been an awakening. He had only played at being blind to his own nature – the truth, on some level, had always been obvious.

* * *

Six months after Daniel’s death his mother erected the most monstrous angel he had ever laid eyes upon.

Harold was not fetched back from Eton for the unveiling, and Josephine shuddered visibly and turned her head away from the spectacle. His mother, oblivious, laid flowers at its feet and spoke to Daniel as though he were a babe, asleep in his cradle.

His father, not known for his sensitivity, nonetheless led her away like a gentleman, and James escorted his sister back to the waiting automobile, sitting beside her on the back passenger seat. He met brown eyes in the mirror and nodded, the engine purring into life, swiftly followed by the crunch of tyres against gravel.

Josephine clung to him, affected, and he squeezed her arm in an attempt to be comforting. There were scarcely ten months between them in age, and as children he and Josephine had been inseparable. She had been spirited and ambitious, pinning the suffragist purple to her favourite bébé, and climbing the great tree in the grounds he, the elder, had been afraid to. Sometimes he ached for those times of childish simplicity, when they could tell each other anything and know they always had a steadfast ally to rely upon.

But he had followed Daniel first to Eton, and then to Cambridge, and Josephine learnt to dance, and to play, and each summer she seemed ever more distant, a changeling inhabiting his sister’s body, content to smile pleasantly while others planned her entire existence out for her.

“It was beastly,” she whispered as they left the cemetery behind. “Poor Daniel, lying there with that – that thing watching over him. It looked demonic.”

In some ways, James thought the monument apt. Though he had loved him dearly, Daniel had not always been the angel many believed him to be. He could have a nasty temper in his cups, undoubtedly a legacy of their father's, and worse he had too much of a fondness for women, a trait which could only have made itself increasingly apparent. Once, while accompanying their father on a trip to France Daniel had led him into a darkened store where men could procure photographs of acts so lewd, and so scandalous, he still knew no names for some of them. Daniel had laughed at his instinctive outrage, and told him he had much to learn of the world and yet more to learn of manhood.

Back then, barely out of knickerbockers, he had refused to believe it. Now he had his own sins to atone for.

“Mother likes it,” was what he said aloud, thinking of how she had returned from the planning stages of the memorial tearful but smiling. His tone was not beyond reproach however and Josephine looked at him, startled, before breaking into such a girlish laugh he could not help but grin at her in return.

“I suppose we should be thankful that Lady Upton has taken it upon herself to arrange the trousseau without consultation.”

James’ smile faltered.

Lady Louisa Upton was soon to be his mother-in-law. Beatrice Upton, her daughter, to be his wife. They had met at a picnic organized by his cousin Elizabeth, the very day after his mother had first mentioned her name, and everything from the precisely uniform width of the finger sandwiches, to the way Elizabeth kept dropping into conversation the way he had once saved Josephine from drowning in the ornamental boating lake, had had his mother’s mark all over it.

Beatrice had made him recount the story in full, and then applauded him for his bravery. He had been thirteen years old at the time, and equally as afraid of his father’s wrath for upsetting the boat as of Josephine not resurfacing – bravery hadn’t entered the equation.

Still, Josephine sung his praises when she wasn’t busy with her own social engagements, and Beatrice appeared at every function he went to. When he saw his mother sat with Lady Upton the outcome seemed inevitable. The Uptons were wealthy, fabulously so, and were happy to indulge the whims of their youngest daughter to the point of offering to pump money into her suitor's ailing family business, provided he set up home in Boston and organise affairs from there, as much as possible. He was in no position to barter.

It wasn’t so very awful, not really. Beatrice was a pretty thing, if rather vacant, and he could think of no reasonable objection to their becoming engaged to be married. His mother embraced him briefly at the official announcement, and his father shook his hand, proud expression directed at him for the first time rather than Daniel. The Uptons retuned to Boston, and Lady Upton and his mother were in constant communication, organizing gowns and flowers and finishing touches.

He ought, he supposed, to feel deliriously happy.

Instead he felt numb when he thought of it, as though it were happening to someone else, and he was simply observing from a distance.

“You do love her, don’t you, Jamie?” Josephine asked, sensing his preoccupation.

For a moment he entertained the idea of confessing all to her. Of how he felt nothing when he looked at Beatrice; of how he hadn’t missed her in the slightest. Of how it wasn’t just Beatrice who left him passionless and how he feared he wouldn’t be able to perform his matrimonial duty, and that the marriage would be annulled and the family ruined despite it all.

Then he came to his senses and, though he couldn’t quite meet her eyes, Josephine seemed satisfied with his quiet,

“Of course I do.”

* * *

Daniel had been dead nine months when the day came to screw his courage together. Jenkins woke him with his tea and his slippers, and James watched the other man over his cup even as he went over and over in mind how best to word it. It was a lot to ask, a lot to sacrifice for a new life Jenkins might not want in the first place.

“I fear it shall be inclement today, Sir,” Jenkins said as he laid out his attire for the day, and James smiled to himself, knowing the man well enough to deduce the unspoken ‘it’s going to be bloody freezing again.’

He dealt with his own buttons, and let Jenkins knot his tie, fingers careful but sure. They were close enough that James could smell the heady mixture of brilliantine, and starch, and the scent he had bought him as a token that very Christmas. It was now or never, he thought, for he might not get another chance to say it –

Then the bell was ringing and Jenkins was gone, nothing but formal apologies lingering between them. James sat heavily on the bed and reached for his cigarette case, the silver one that had once belonged to Daniel, and fumbled with the match like a clumsy schoolboy.

His mother disapproved, of course, and the knowledge only made him inhale deeper, and watch the smoke swirl lazily around him.

Jenkins wouldn’t be long. Would murmur apologies and listen quietly to what he had to say, expression so closed it could have been lifted straight from ‘the fool’s guide to buttling’. Perhaps he would refuse his offer politely. James thought that that would be the most difficult response to deal with. They knew each other well now, and for all the treacherous avenues his mind traversed when fixed on the idea of the other man, James considered him as good a friend as any of the chums from Eton he remained in contact with.

He knew, for instance, that Jenkins – Edward as he allowed himself to call his friend in the privacy of his own mind – had an invalid father, and three brothers who each made their living in the coal pit. There was a sister too, and a grandmother whom he invariably imagined in the guise of the withered figure in Vosper's painting on the subject, though he wasn't at all sure Jenkins would take kindly to the revelation. He knew that the entire family was Nonconformist, and that Jenkins had an aversion to drink and gambling that had as much to do with a ruined uncle as any words of wisdom held in the Scripture. He knew too of Jenkins' fascination with science and the 'modern', and that he spent his evenings off at the local cinema, watching sentimental dross of the Pickford kind, proving that no man was entirely without fault.

In short, he knew that for Jenkins to withdraw behind the stuffy formal façade of the perfect servant would mean, not only the loss of their relationship as master and servant but, if Jenkins were to guess at his true motives, possibly the end of a very dear friendship.

James was just grinding the stub of the cigarette into his saucer when the door moved, and he thought of cook and the scullery maids, and wished he had simply thrown it through the window. It wasn’t a maid however, and it wasn’t Jenkins either. Instead Josephine stood there, pale face streaked with tears, and he was on his feet before she could say,

“I’m in desperate trouble, Jamie.”

They found themselves walking along the edge of the lake, he in his hat and gloves and Josephine in her muffler, away from the watchful eye of their mother and the servants. Josephine had always been entirely unaffected by how close she had come to losing her life in its murky depths, but he had to force himself to keep his path, and not to shy from the water like a coward.

His mother had indulged him at first, when he woke screaming from watery nightmares, but his father had deemed his fear ridiculous, and eventually ordered his presence in France with the thought of Cambridge and rowing trials fast approaching, knowing he would have no choice but to make the crossing with Daniel. He had embarrassed himself by clenching his eyes tight shut at every roil of the ocean, and had feared he might actually cry until Daniel’s new valet feigned his own discomfort and sat with him in a corner. He had drawn him into conversation, distracting him with questions about school, and friends, and career prospects. It had worked, obvious ploy though it was, and months later, when he was home for the summer once more he had sought the man out so often his mother had scolded him thoroughly.

They reached the old wooden bench and his mind was dragged back to the present, working overtime as he waited for Josephine to tell him what was bothering her.

“Do you remember when we used to come out here as children? Before…” She trailed off, she didn’t need to say it. James nodded anyway, encouraging. “I was so certain of myself then. I truly believed in the things I said. About not wanting to marry.”

James looked out across the still water rather than watch her cry. She had been loud and opinionated, and their mother had despaired, telling her time and again that with such an attitude she would never find a husband. He had been a quiet child, unwilling to court their mother’s displeasure, and it had been Daniel who inevitably stood up for Josephine. Laughed and said that he would support her in her spinsterdom.

“I didn’t understand,” Josephine sobbed. “I was blind to how much it mattered.”

It felt like there was something he wasn’t understanding. Some piece of the puzzle just out of his reach. She met his eyes, pale as a ghost, and whispered,

“I’m to be a mother.”

It didn’t sink in at first, not really. Not as he escorted her back to the house and told her that everything would be alright, that he would fix it. He imagined what Daniel would have said, and repeated it, and sat through dinner with his parents, surprised at the lack of guilt he felt at lying to them when they asked why Josephine had chosen to stay in her bedroom.

He smoked a cigar and swirled brandy around his glass to be sociable, and said goodbyes and goodnights to his father’s guests before finally retiring to his own room. Jenkins was waiting for him, that perfect poker face slipping, knowing, and that was when it finally hit him. It would soon be too late to hide what was happening, and everyone would know, and all his promises would have been nothing but sweet sounding falsehoods.

Jenkins helped him out of his dinner jacket, sensing that his own fingers were uncooperative, and James thought of that trip on the Channel ferry, and the way he had stared at Jenkins, abruptly jealous of Daniel for no reason he could decipher. For Jenkins had been employed as Daniel’s man, to keep up appearances, and though he had spoken longingly of home as the ship bobbed from side to side, James knew he had come with the highest of references.

James wondered now if it had all been an act. If the other man had simply told tall tales to make a silly child feel better. The idea hurt, more than he supposed it ought, and suddenly he felt exhausted. Tired in body, and in soul, and fed up of bearing the weight of the family’s future on his shoulders.

He was to be married before the year was out, yet his younger sister was facing scandal and ruin. He couldn’t understand how it had happened, how two people might come to be in such a situation. Every girl he had ever met had appeared heavily chaperoned, and even if they hadn’t been he felt sure he would not have taken advantage of the fact.

Jenkins coughed to remind him of his presence, and his cheeks flamed in embarrassment and the sudden twist in his train of thought. He imagined, too vividly, the two of them alone, without anyone to overhear and without the other man’s inevitable lack of interest in such depravity. Jenkins simply watched him, calm in a way that enflamed him.

“It would be an honour, Sir,” Jenkins said, the words formal but the tone intimate.

James frowned, his head feeling stuffy even as his heart pounded. Before he could ask for clarification, Jenkins was turning down his bed, setting a glass of water on his nightstand.

“That would be my answer to the question you wanted to ask this morning. It would be an honour to travel with you and serve as your butler.”

It had been his question, and the answer was exactly what he had wanted. And, yet, it was entirely inadequate. He didn’t know how to put it into words, how to make the other man understand how completely awful the prospect of living without him had been.

"Unless, of course," Jenkins began, and James recognised too well the strangled tone of uncertainty. 

"No," he said, and shook his head. "I mean yes. That is - "

Jenkins looked at him, gaze so trusting in his ability to explain himself, to know his own mind, it made his breath catch.

"Thank you," he managed finally. "It means a lot to me."

* * *

“It is a marvel of modern engineering, the largest ship ever built,” his father said, effectively closing the matter.

His mother enthusiastically voiced her agreement, doubtless thinking of all the eligible young bachelors set to sail upon the ship, dreaming of attending one wedding ceremony only to begin arranging another, and not sparing a thought for the red ink covering ledger after ledger in what he still thought of as Daniel’s office.

James knew there was no point in arguing about it. His father had been a formidable man in his youth, and age had done but little to soften his temper. Daniel might have gotten away with talking of practicality and economy, but his father would see straight through him.

More than anything, he was afraid to travel on a ship which had yet to prove herself seaworthy.

Josephine came to him that evening however, looking tired and pale, and finally relinquished the identity of the father; Charles Baxter, who was also to be sailing on the Titanic's maiden voyage. He had been a friend of Daniel's, and had been a guest at their home on more than one occasion. Although James was not of a violent disposition, it took effort not to take off that instant and break the cad's nose for his actions. Instead he brought up a subject he could scarcely bring himself to speak of, and drew in a great breath of relief when Josephine immediately refused, stating her intention to raise the baby. For all the problems it created, he was glad. He did not need yet more evil staining his conscience.

So it was that the day dawned bright and clear, and they boarded the behemoth of the ship in good time, Josephine excusing her pallid complexion on the motion of the water while James rehearsed over and over in his mind the arguments he would use to force Baxter to do the decent thing and ask for Josephine's hand in matrimony. Jenkins, who had the misfortune of valeting for both him and his father, Gregson not being up to the sea journey, set about unpacking their luggage and arranging their cabins. James watched him wistfully for a moment, before busying himself with touring the great public rooms as they departed for France, in an attempt to distract himself from his unpleasant thoughts as well as the nervous roiling in his stomach.

He was grateful that the ship was just as sumptuous as the trade adverts had claimed, providing much to take in, because within minutes he learned that they had narrowly missed the liner _New York_ while pulling free of the harbour. He was minded of an article he had once read in _The Idler_ , expounding on the idea that a machine could be flawless, yet would never be free of the threat of human error.

His nerves duly tested, he spent a time watching a young Jesuit take photographs of the vessel and her passengers, smiling slightly at the bustle of strict looking nannies intent on scolding their charges. Harry had protested bitterly at not being allowed to accompany – and avoid a full five weeks of schooling – but their father's position had been decided, and nothing nor no-one could have had any hope of changing it. Later he chatted amiably with a fellow he had been at Cambridge with and, when he was invited to join him and his companions after dinner, he agreed eagerly, not because the thought of making awkward conversation with his parents was intolerable (though it was), but because Baxter's name was mentioned.

Dinner was a fine affair, though the flurry of excitement caused by the arrival of Dorothy Gibson did nothing but make his father mutter about having to sit with 'a bunch of damn foreigners', and Josephine just spent the entire meal listlessly pushing food around her plate. Baxter was not at the card table, and though the chaps were all nice enough, James excused himself after only a handful of games, wishing the whole horrid business could be over with. Instead he found himself on the boat deck, near enough as high above sea as the ship would allow him to be, watching couples promenade on the decks below.

The idea ought to have been dismissed as quickly as it came to him, but his old house master had lamented on more than one occasion, often before a thorough caning, of his propensity for folly and foolishness, and before he had chance to reconsider he was heading down flight after flight of stairs, with no set destination ahead of him.

It was no great surprise when he realised he was on the middle deck, wandering the corridors in search of the berth number on the second class ticket his father had purchased. Mrs. Ashton, mother's maid, was on the deck above, so it was obvious he wasn't on an errand from that quarter, and he couldn't exactly say he had fancied a dip in the swimming pool, because it was too late, and anybody with whom he had even a passing acquaintance would be able to tell he was lying through his hind teeth.

He was about to turn around and retrace his steps when a familiar voice called his name, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest, treacherous organ that it was.

“Has something happened?” Jenkins asked, earnest. “Your father dismissed me not quarter of an hour ago.”

James blushed, for he had already said that he would likely be awake until the early hours of the morning, and that Jenkins was not to wait up for him.

“I just, ah,” he started, struggling for a believable story, “felt like a stroll before bed.”

Jenkins' expression softened, so that he could almost imagine a scene of love confessions, not unlike the ones he knew his man enjoyed at the cinema every chance he got. Jenkins touched his arm, briefly, and said,

“I am no great fan of sea crossings myself, Sir. Perhaps some air would aid both of us.”

They walked the length of the promenade deck, now talking, now sharing a companionable silence, the cold night air making them walk closer together than they otherwise might, much like the couples James had observed earlier that very evening. It was perfect, while being perfect agony, and before they said their good-nights and parted ways, James couldn't help but pause a moment to simply look at Jenkins, and said,

“I really do appreciate you consenting to buttle for me – that is, us.” He cursed the slip and tried to lighten the tone, “Though I fear Boston shan't be as _proper_ as dear old England.”

Jenkins graced him with a small smile that made his legs feel unsteady, though the sea was relatively calm, and the motion of the ship was not as discernible as he had feared it would be.

“Thank you for asking me.”

* * *

The following day passed without major incident. The ship made a call at Queenstown, and he and Josephine stood and watched the bustle of activity from the deck, the weather being milder than the day previous.

“Are you quite sure you're alright?” he asked when Josephine showed signs of fatigue, but she waved him off with the frustrated air only a sister could master, and told him to stop clucking.

“I'm sorry,” she apologised, contrite, a few moments later. “I'm just tired.” They sat on the chairs lining the deck, and after another bout of silence, Josephine said,

“After dinner last night all the talk was of Madeleine Astor; the ladies are all in a fuss because she is so very young, and so very with child.” She paused, composing herself. “And she is _married_.”

James looked out at the ocean, the very sight transporting him to another time. The blue tinge to Josephine’s cheeks when he had finally succeeded in pulling her from the water. The taste of the lake water in his mouth, and the stench of it on his skin. It had been summer, the sun warm and bright, but still he had been unable to stop shivering. He shut his eyes, forced the thoughts away.

He had saved her then, and he would do it now. “You have my word,” he told her, voice wavering with the conviction behind it, “that he will do right by you.” She touched his hand, gave him a watery smile, and rose to join their mother indoors. He sat there a moment longer, then began making inquiries. When they were completed he spent the rest of the day in the library, soaking up the calm and the tranquility, not knowing when the chance might come again.

Dinner was something of an ordeal, his father asking the officer assigned to their table endless questions about the ship's specifications, and his mother complaining about imagined faults with the food, the crew, and the décor. Tactfully avoiding his mother's tirade, the young man set about explaining how the watertight bulkheads worked; James tried to commit the explanation to memory, certain that it would be something Harry would expect to be included in his promised letters.

“You say the ship is unsinkable,” Josephine cut in eventually, the strain on her body making her as irritable and forthright as she had been as a child. “But supposing it were to sink regardless, what then?”

The man smiled politely, if a little falsely, and said,

“I can assure you there is no need to worry yourself; this ship is a marvel of the modern era. But,” he went on, sensing another interruption, “we have equipped her with more than the legal requirement of lifeboats – there is ample space for all women and children aboard.”

James didn't miss the officer's omission. After taking to his bed sleep was a long time coming and, when it did, it was plagued by nightmares full of water, and panic, and boats capsizing.

* * *

Friday dawned cold and clear, and he had little option but to consent to spend the day accompanying his mother on various errands, the majority of which seemed to be meeting each of her acquaintances, new and old, and recounting how he was to be married a week come Tuesday. When they were finished he wasted no time in starting on his own itinerary for the day, though he had slept little and his nerves were frayed. He glanced repeatedly at the number he had written down on a little slip of paper, eventually chancing upon the correct cabin with only minimal help from crew members. He took a deep breath before rapping at the door, and forced himself to stay calm as he waited for an answer, though his heart was beating rather too rapidly.

The door opened to reveal Charles Baxter's face, and how he beat down his instinctual reaction to deliver his fist to the man's nose, James never knew.

Baxter's expression shifted from a frown of annoyance to a smile of recognition, “Jamie Dalton? Daniel's little brother?” Somehow the easy familiarity only served to rile him further.

“The very same,” he answered coolly. “May I come in?”

The cabin was as richly appointed as his own, though James noted the untidiness of the place and wondered whether Baxter was travelling alone, or whether the mess was merely the work of a morning. The door shut with a click, and James once again drew a breath,

“It's about Josephine.”

Baxter gave him a puzzled look, then set about pouring himself a drink, waving the bottle in his direction in offering.

“No, thank you,” James said tersely, the colour rising in his cheeks as he realised he was going to have to be blunt about the matter. He twisted words in his head, this way and that, and then let them simply fall from his lips, finding he couldn't care about propriety.

“Josephine is carrying your child. What do you propose to do about it?”

Rather than falling pale and silent, as James had expected, Baxter scoffed around a mouthful of bourbon. “Me? I propose to do nothing about it. Old girl knew what she was letting herself in for.”

“I beg your pardon,” James said, voice rising. He had known the man was a bounder, but this really was beyond the limit. “That is my sister to whom you are referring. You – you bloody well got her into this mess, and now it's your responsibility to get her out of it!”

His chest was heaving, temper flaring. He had not had a stand up argument about anything since he was in short trousers, and Daniel had taken it upon himself to release his pet rabbit into the wild. Baxter sank onto the lavishly upholstered chaise longue, and drained the rest of the liquid in his glass.

“Fine, you want money to see her straight,” Baxter reached into his waistcoat pocket for his cheque book. “Here,” he uncapped his pen and wrote in a slanted hand, 'One Hundred Pounds Only'. “I think that should suffice.”

For a moment he was struck dumb, quite unable to believe the scene unfolding in front of him. Then he had moved across the room, to better loom over Baxter though he had never been particularly accomplished in the ring, and tried again. “I didn't come here to ask you for your money. I came to ask you to do the decent, honourable thing and ask my sister to marry you.” At the incredulous look on Baxter's face he all but yelled, “Did your friendship with my brother mean nothing to you? What would he think?”

At this last Baxter stood, towering a good four inches above him. His expression was icy. “I have made you a very reasonable offer, I suggest you take it.” It was said as Baxter backed him slowly, but inexorably, towards the door. “As for Daniel, he had enough bastards of his own to worry about.”

The shock must have shown on his face, for Baxter laughed, and said, “Yes, that's right, even the poor unfortunate Daniel Dalton has left his legacy to the world. There wasn't a society lady or serving girl in England who was safe from his advances.”

What he yelled in the aftermath of the revelation, he was never sure, but there were three members of crew eavesdropping in the corridor when he succeeded in landing a punch, and got three in addition to a door being slammed in his face for his trouble. He didn't pay them any attention, just walked and walked and walked, until it felt as though he had made the rounds of the entire ship at least three times.

When he once again found himself on deck the sky was dark, and the ache in his stomach told him that, not only had he taken a fist to it, but he had also missed dinner. He stood at the railing, for once not overcome by fear of the water beneath them, motionless and shattered for long moments. Daniel had been his idol; he had wanted to be just like him, even as he had wanted to be better than him. He had spent the last nine months trying to live up to Daniel's name, to do things as Daniel would have wanted them done.

And all the time it had been a lie. In a sudden fit of rage he took the silver cigarette case from his pocket, the one that had once belonged to Daniel, and hurled it into the sea. It was too dark and too loud to have the satisfying proof of it hitting its mark, and suddenly all the anger drained from him, leaving nothing but melancholy. He must have cried, though he had no recollection of it, because when a hand touched his shoulder his face was wet, and his chest was shuddering with the effort of it.

“You'll catch your death out here, Sir,” Jenkins said, draping his overcoat around his shoulders. “Lord and Lady Dalton missed you at dinner.”

He couldn't speak, his throat was too tight, and he looked away lest he embarrass himself further. Jenkins must think him an imbecile, he thought roughly. There was silence as Jenkins led him back to his cabin, and James couldn't help but think of that night so many months ago when he had drank himself into a stupor, rather than face his responsibilities.

Once the door was closed tightly behind them, Jenkins' demeanour relaxed ever so slightly. Wind chilled fingers touched his cheekbone carefully, and when he stared back perplexedly, Jenkins glanced towards the mirror, James' gaze following. It was already bruising darkly, there would be no hiding it.

Instead of chiding him as James had half expected, Jenkins didn't withdraw his light touch, and held his gaze with an intensity that was making him shiver anew. “I hope you do not think me impertinent,” Jenkins began, tone so low James unconsciously moved closer to hear him, “but I admire you for helping her. For taking him to task. If it were my sister...” At this Jenkins trailed off, expression so dark James had cause to be glad he was never going to find himself in a compromising position with said sister. The thought brought a twinge of surreal humour, but all too soon it was gone, replaced by gloom and hopelessness.

“Fat lot of good it's done. She will be ostracised, disinherited, and he will continue on as if nothing has happened.” The anger was flaring again at the injustice of it. “And Daniel-” He stopped abruptly. He no longer knew how he felt about Daniel.

Jenkins broke the contact between them, ever stoic and responsible, and insisted that he sit down. James acquiesced on the sole condition that Jenkins did likewise. Jenkins helped him out of his waistcoat, which was damp from the night air, and then guided him to sit on the bed before seating himself on a straight backed chair at the dressing table.

He looked so very handsome like that, to James' eye, with the lamplight highlighting the sheen of the brilliantine in his hair. To distract himself he asked, “Did you know?” He had to pause to whet suddenly dry lips. “Did you know that Daniel had been in this situation?”

Jenkins hung his head in answer. There was a pause, as though the other man was deciding on something, and then he started speaking. “Not until last spring; a young lady came to him asking for support. I told him I could not continue in his employ, not given his answer to her.” James thought of his subscription to the _Methodist Recorder_ and nodded in understanding, there would be time enough for details at a later date. “It was decided between us that I would serve my notice, and leave with a good reference. Then you both fell ill with diphtheria, and the decision was taken out of my hands.”

Though the words were beyond reproach, cool even, there was a warmth to his tone that James was sure he wasn't just imagining.

“It's been a long day,” Jenkins said when he could think of no response to the tale. “I should let you get some rest.”

“Please stay. Just to sit with me.” he asked, though he cursed himself the moment the words were out of his mouth. It was a ridiculous request, and he ought to know better. Jenkins hesitated though, as if fighting his own internal battle. There was no sound bar the humming of the ship's engine, and the pounding of his heart, and just when he had dared to let himself hope for the answer he so wanted, Jenkins stood and made for the door. The words were soft when they came, though they felt like the blow of a hammer, the tone terrifyingly knowing.

“It's late now, Sir. Things will look different in the morning.”

* * *

“Good gracious!” His mother exclaimed at the sight of him. Josephine went pale as a sheet, understanding instinctively. His father's gaze was full of disapproval, and they all four ate breakfast in uncomfortable silence.

“I trust this will be the first and last time I see you mar the family name like this,” his father hissed before he left the room, and Josephine abruptly started crying the moment it was just the two of them.

“What am I going to do?” She implored over and over, near hysterical, and James did his best to calm her though in truth he had no idea. If the accounts were not in such a miserable state it would not have been a problem, a farce of a wedding to save face, but as it was he was at a loss. To his sister he betrayed none of his private fears, and comforted her,

“I gave you my word, didn't I? You just have to trust me.”

She sobbed herself into submission eventually, and James left her to rest, returning to the library where he stared unseeingly at a book, completely unable to concentrate. After an hour or so he snapped the tome closed, and made instead for the promenade deck. It was queer in a way, that he should feel calmer at the sight of the water than inside, but there was something about the thought of being trapped as water steadily rose around him that struck fear in his breast like nothing else.

Jenkins appeared to be avoiding him, he noted, and tried to distract himself with people watching. There were thousands of people aboard, 2224 the newspapers would later say, and he felt awed at the thought of all of those thousands of lives being lived, intermingling with one another, if only for this brief interlude.

Dinner was a quiet, solemn affair, with Josephine preferring to remain in her cabin. He spotted Baxter as the ladies began to retire, and made his way over stubbornly, refusing to accept defeat just yet.

“My answer hasn't changed,” Baxter told him, around a cigar, and James glared at the man, clueless as to what Josephine could ever have seen in him in the first place.

“It won't just be her name dragged through the mud,” he threatened, weak though it was, and Baxter just smiled.

“No, it will be your mother and father's too, I should think.”

Back in his cabin, Jenkins dealt with his evening wear as an automaton, avoiding his gaze and scarcely touching him, even when it was quite necessary. The humiliation stung, more than Baxter's fist ever could, and James tried to fortify himself for the inevitable, and imagined what he might say, when Jenkins told him he had changed his mind, and couldn't possibly stay in his service. It could be worse, he supposed, his name could already be worthless and his mother could reach for her smelling salts at the mere sight of him. The recognition did nothing to cheer him. Seeing no other option, James settled on an early night, to try and get some sleep though succeeding only in twisting, and turning, and worrying until pale morning light streaked in through the porthole.

* * *

Sunday was a day he would never have any hope of forgetting. James succeeded in snatching only a few brief hours of sleep, and when he awoke yet again he submitted to the inevitable and rose and dressed for the day ahead.

It seemed quite one-half of the passengers had piled into the Dining Saloon for the morning service, and James spotted Baxter a few rows forward but minutes into the address. His displeasure must have shown on his face, for his mother tapped at his arm as she had when he was a child, and preferred to fidget than listen to the sermon. They all listened obediently, and sang dutifully, and as they reached the closing notes of _Eternal Father, Strong to Save_ he shivered, in spite of himself, at the thought of meeting a watery grave in the middle of the ocean.

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or perhaps it was the constant strain on his nerves as a result of being at sea, but the afternoon seemed to pass in a numb haze. He couldn't drag his mind from the imminent prospect of Jenkins' news, and any respite he had was filled with worries about Josephine, and his mother, and Beatrice. He picked at his lunch, letting the conversation wash over him, and excused himself early though he could think of no better way to occupy himself. He attempted to read, and spent a time watching love-struck young couples on the promenade deck, before giving it all up as a poor show and returning to his cabin with the intention of dealing with some correspondence.

Another letter written to Harry detailing every particular of the ship he could remember, and a telegram sent to Beatrice reassuring her that, indeed, they were all alive and well and making good progress, there was nothing left but to dress for dinner and Jenkins emerged just as he was commencing battle with his bow-tie, and took over the fight without saying a word.

“I will understand,” he found the nerve to say as Jenkins' fingers accidentally brushed the skin of his neck, suddenly desperate for an end to at least one torment. “I shall see to it that your reference is of the highest order.”

Silence descended thick and awkward, combining with his own misery until he could scarcely stand it. Then, in the work of a moment, it was as though a mask had been removed and Jenkins dropped into the nearest chair, because it was clear his legs wouldn't support him.

“It's my fault,” Jenkins murmured, more to himself than James. “I should have left long ago, as soon as I knew the sin in my own heart.”

The words were full of recrimination, self-hatred even, but to his own ears they sounded as a choir of angels. There was a knock at the door, then another accompanied by the sound of his father's voice, warning him not to be late for dinner. For once James ignored him. He chose instead to drop to his knees, even as the sound of his father's steps receded down the corridor, so that brown eyes were forced to meet his own.

“I made my own decision,” he said in little more than a whisper, knowing he could do nothing but wait and hope. The tension was palpable, his own heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he gazed up into the face that had haunted his dreams for months. This was what the poets wrote about, what everyone hoped for and too few ever achieved. So there could be no misunderstanding he took the other man's hand in his own, even as his heart hammered frantically, “I love you.”

The effect the words had was as dramatic as it was instantaneous, so that one moment he was afraid he was set to lose everything, and the next there were lips pressed against his mouth, and a hand anchored in his hair.

“Edward,” he whispered, as he had long dreamed of doing, and there was a groan in response, such that sent a feeling like no other he had ever experienced flashing through him. They kissed and kissed, until he startled at the slick swipe of tongue against his lips, and when he understood, they kissed again until he couldn't think of anything but the man in front of him.

Every touch was maddening, too much yet not enough, and it was not as he had imagined, though even later, when he had experience to compare it to, the encounter was more than he could have hoped for.

He flushed when it was done, uncertain of himself, and Edward smiled at him, equal parts fond and satisfied, and they lay together for long moments, loathe to allow the intrusion of duty and morality.

* * *

His father would have come looking for him, that much was obvious, so they had been forced to vacate the warmth of his cabin for the chilly spring weather. And it was cold on deck, enough for their breath to mist in front of their faces, but James couldn't keep the smile from his face, for no matter what might come in the future, he would always draw strength from the perfect happiness of the moment.

Edward smiled back at him, for all the problems they would have to face up to in the morning, and James would have said something entirely too reckless for their public setting, had not at that moment shouting broke out from the lookouts above, and there was a sickening sound of scraping, the iceberg almost close enough to touch as it passed alongside of them.

It meant nothing, he tried to convince himself in the moments afterwards. The ship was unsinkable. But the panic on the faces of the crew as they passed was unmistakable, and James felt his insides go cold as he picked out snippets of conversation,

“repeated ice warnings … the size of it, how could they miss … water flooding the hold … sending out the distress signal”

He must have gone faint because Edward gripped him steadily by the arm, told him to breathe, in and out, and that everything would be fine. For the first time, James didn't believe him.

“We have to tell Josephine,” he said, panic edging into his voice. “We have to get her and mother into a lifeboat.”

It was a task easier said than done. It was late, and James imagined they would have long abandoned the dining saloon for their cabins, but when they reached their berths no amount of pounding on their doors resulted in any reaction.

“I have a key,” Edward said, in as calm a tone as James had ever heard from him, though his face was tense, especially as other people, bundled in coats and furs, pushed past them. The rooms, however, were empty, and for a moment he couldn't think for hysteria, and then he remembered to breathe, and to concentrate, though his voice didn't sound his own as he suggested they go down a deck and find Mrs. Ashton.

Mrs. Ashton had been with his mother for as long as he could remember, and she was renowned among the household staff for her strictness and her frugality. The former doubtless endeared her to his mother, though how the latter had never made any impression, he was sure he would never know. By this time the crew were handing out life jackets, and it was hard work going against the grain, as everyone seemed to be making their way up, not down. James had to cling tighter than usual to the stair bannisters after they had paused to put the jackets on, the very idea of the ship sinking causing him to sweat and shake, his heart racing manically.

“Mrs. Ashton,” he called with relief when they finally reached her cabin. It quickly became reprimanding, “Why aren't you on deck? Why aren't you wearing your lifebelt?” Before the woman could protest he was putting his own over her head, silently chanting over and over that he was going to die a gentleman.

“Where are Lord and Lady Dalton?” Edward asked, impossibly formal once again. “Where is Miss Josephine?”

“I'm sure I don't know,” Mrs. Ashton said, pulling at the lifebelt in distaste. “Once her Ladyship was dressed, she gave me the evening to myself, you know. I don't know what all this fuss is about. _Titanic_ won't sink, the Captain himself told me so.”

It was not the news James wanted to hear, and though it was most irregular, he took the woman by the arm and began leading her none too delicately to the stairwell. Edward followed closely, and he took strength from the fact. He was sure he would be nothing but a gibbering wreck on his own.

Aboard deck, he saw Mrs. Ashton safely into a lifeboat and, with the assurance of the officer in charge of loading the boat that few of the lifeboats had yet been lowered they made their way frantically around the ship, scouring the anxious faces for his family.

“We should split up,” Edward said after yet another false alarm. “It would be quicker.”

“No!” The force of his answer surprised even himself, and drew curious glances from those nearby. “I mean – no. No.” He shook his head, desperately trying to fend off blind panic. Edward seemed to understand, touched his hand though for anyone watching it would be scandalous. Then he resumed his inquiries,

“Excuse me, Sir, have you seen Lady Dalton? Madam, can I trouble you a moment...”

James felt his shoulders slump slightly in momentary relief. And then he too was back to it. Boats were beginning to be lowered in earnest now, and he found himself alternating between desperate panic, and the comforting idea that in the commotion he had missed seeing his mother and Josephine's faces amongst their passengers.

It was Edward who eventually spotted them, sat together in the first class lounge looking for all the world, in spite of the life jackets, as though it were a perfectly ordinary evening and they were simply enjoying an after meal drink.

“What are you doing?” James exploded. “Has it escaped your notice that the ship is _sinking_!”

“How dare you speak to your mother like that,” his father said stiffly, disapproving gaze travelling from him to Edward and back again. In any other frame of mind it might have struck panic into his breast. “Don't think your absence at dinner went unnoticed.”

“It's quite safe,” his mother said. “They're only handing out these frightful jackets as a precaution.”

Josephine, who had always been cleverer than the world would give her credit for, recognised immediately that this was not the case, and rose to her feet determinedly.

“I think, mother, that we should head for the boats now.”

“Nonsense,” their father countered, “you heard what your mother just said.”

“And you would be responsible for all our deaths?” Josephine asked pointedly, which while not the way he would have approached the matter, nonetheless had the desired effect.

As they stepped outside the list to starboard was obvious, and panic was beginning to set in. Children were crying, and crowds were growing around the lifeboats.

“Women, children, and the infirm only,” a man not much older than himself was yelling into the night air. “The rest of you stand back!”

James pushed his way through the crowd, making way for their group. The crewman swept his gaze over Mother and Josephine, then the way Father was leaning heavily on his cane, the cold seeping into his joints, and nodded. The relief was instant. His parents were settled in the boat, and Josephine was being helped aboard when another figure pushed to the fore. Baxter.

“Stand back,” the crewman yelled. “Women and children first!”

“I'm her fiancé!” Baxter cried in return, causing Josephine to gape and his mother to gasp, and when that did nothing to alter the man's mind, he added, “She needs me at her side. She's in a delicate condition.”

Some of the ladies already seated in the boat gasped, and he saw his mother rock backwards a little in a faint at the shock, his father's face turning red with rage. The man hesitated, torn, before finally seeing the lack of denial from Josephine and nodding. James narrowed his eyes at the self-serving relief on Baxter's face, even as he felt satisfied he had kept his word, and that Josephine – this little scene notwithstanding – would not have to suffer the disgrace of a scandal.

“The man is a snake,” Edward said in his ear, and they stood back at the urging of the crew, and watched with false, fixed smiles as the boat was lowered down into the water.

Neither of them needed to say a word to be assured that they each understood how the situation stood. It was now a quarter to two in the morning, and in spite of the continued playing of the band, the panic in the air was palpable. Some stood smoking cigars, chatting as though they were out for an evening stroll. Most were searching frantically for an escape.

Though he would have imagined to be in hysterics, in truth he felt strangely numb, resigned, and followed the crowd unthinkingly. The chaos grew with every step, children screaming and women weeping, and the echo of a handgun ringing out as the crew attempted desperately to keep order. Edward took his hand, for the opinion of society no longer seemed to matter, and James said suddenly,

“I'm rather glad Father forbade Harry making the trip.”

Because he was, and because it seemed the kind of thing one ought to say at such a juncture. Edward simply clung to him more tightly, and James considered, as his surroundings began to make themselves known once more, that perhaps he was slightly hysterical, after all.

Near half the deck was now submerged in ice cold water, and those who remained ran aimless as rats, though they must have known the task futile. Edward dragged him forward all the same, to where a small crowd were struggling with a collapsible boat.

“I pray the Lord my soul to keep,” murmured a man standing slightly apart, eyes wide and terrified as he watched the commotion. When his vision focused he noticed James watching, unable to look away fast enough, and he told him, “We are all going to die. All of us. None shall be saved.”

Edward pulled him away, his hair damped with sweat and the ocean spray, and urged him to help free the boat. To at least try for survival. His limbs were numb with cold, the water now up around their knees, and when he looked up again the man was pulling off his life jacket. Their eyes met, just for a moment, and then he had launched himself into the freezing water, rather than wait for the sound of the heavenly trumpet.

There was movement then, and noise, and sudden darkness as the ship's lights flickered on and then off again. Edward pushed towards him, through the water and debris, and forced the poor soul's life jacket over his head before touching their foreheads together, and telling him that it was all going to be alright, though the great funnel of the ship came crashing down, and the lights went out for the last time.

What exactly happened next was never clear, just a blur of fear and terror and cold, cold like he had never known, so that he couldn't breathe, and then the water was crashing over him and he couldn't breathe at all. He kicked and thrashed blindly, as he had so many years ago in the murky water of the boating lake, and there seemed to be no end, no hope, and spots of colour danced behind his eyelids before he finally broke free, and the terror set in again for there were writhing figures as far as the eye could see, and no sign of Edward anywhere.

He called for him, another voice to the fray, and when hands grabbed at him he at first tried to break free, before he could hear over the din,

“It's me, I'm here. It's alright. Everything's going to be alright, Jamie.”

It wasn't, it couldn't be, and they clung to each other until the cold became all encompassing once more, and the cries began to grow weaker as one by one, people started to succumb. His own body was wracked with shivers, uncontrollable, and it took all his effort to follow when Edward told him to, guiding them both towards where a group of men were clinging to an upturned boat. Likely, he thought, though the unimportance of it struck him even then, the same boat they had earlier been so desperately attempting to free.

There wasn't enough room for both; they determined to take it in turns, though the pain of the cold when out of the water, was scarcely better than when in. Time passed slowly, hauntingly, and the cries died down to nothing, corpses floating all about them. Frozen skin brushed against his own when he slid back into the water, forced Edward to take his place. He was an Englishman, understood the rules of fair play. Nothing would dissuade him from dying by them, if necessary.

They kept hold of each other's hands, the others too busy with their own fight, and Edward urged him to keep talking. Urged all of them to keep talking.

“What about?” He asked, voice shuddering, reminded of one of the first dinner parties he had attended, and how his mind had been entirely blank, and there had seemed no escape from the awkward silence. Then an idea struck, “Tell me about your family, about where you grew up.”

He listened, floating between awareness and unawareness, the cold insistent but the voice in his ear constant, a squeeze to his hand every time his input was requested. Edward told him of his sister, and the grandmother, and of his very first bible which his father had saved up specially for. “I'll take you to meet them when this is over,” he told him, as though it were a certainty. “I wrote my sister of you, she's always saying she wants to meet a gentleman.”

He would have laughed perhaps, if he wasn't so cold, so he simply squeezed Edward's fingers and when they swapped again he struggled to return the favour, spoke sluggishly of Josephine, and Daniel, and his house master, the one who had believed he should never make anything of himself, because he was forever befriending the wrong sort of fellow. He kept talking until his throat hurt, and he could scarcely open his eyes, and eventually another hand landed square on his shoulder and said, gruffly,

“Give it up, son. He can't hear you.”

It was true, though he squeezed his hand, and called his name, and begged and pleaded, and then he simply lay there shivering, and prayed for the end to come, and for the Lord to take him.

* * *

The decks of the _Carpathia_ looked like the sorry paintings of war wearied refugees that graced so many gallery walls, children and women weeping as far as the eye could see. His own vision kept blurring, and his limbs ached with the cold, so that the search was painfully slow.

Josephine saw him first, and she all but ran to him, flinging her arms about his neck and sobbing into the ruined fabric of his shirt. His parents followed more sedately, though he could see the worry etched on his mother's face, and even his father clasped his shoulder silently, and held his gaze for a long moment, revealing more emotion in those few fleeting seconds than he had before in all the years he'd known him.

Mrs. Ashton was with them, shaken but well, and Baxter loitered in the background. Later, when they were nearing shore and the man seemed more his old self again, James took him by the collar and warned him that if he reneged on his word, he would wish he had perished with all the other unfortunates.

Perhaps it was the desolation in his gaze, perhaps it was some long buried sense of honour awakening in the man's own breast, but Baxter nodded and they alighted together, Baxter accompanying them to the Uptons. Beatrice fussed over him as though he were a child, and he wished dearly that he could be happy to see her. As it was he retired early, and lay awake in a strange bed, in a strange place, staring unseeingly at the ceiling above him. It didn't feel real, none of it, and though he felt broken he couldn't shed a single tear.

The wedding went ahead the following Tuesday, and his father died a fortnight later from complications arising from spending so long in the frigid cold. Beatrice watched him with pitying eyes as he scoured the reports of recovered bodies, because the idea of sightless corpses left afloat was hideous, and Josephine accompanied him to the cinema to watch Miss Gibson relive the entire ordeal. He was the one to break down, the walls around him tumbling, helpless as Josephine tried to comfort him. Later, she sat with him quietly and said,

“He would want you to be happy. He was a good man.”

James felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach churn even as his throat tightened, his hold over himself still tenuous. Josephine simply patted his hand, and left the room, and he supposed that he shouldn't have been so surprised at her guessing. She had always been more worldly, better able to see the world, than he could ever hope to be.

In time Josephine was married herself, their father's body scarcely committed to the ground, and a few scant months later she became mother to a bouncing baby boy she named Edward. Baxter was not a doting husband, but then he wasn't a terrible one, and Josephine told him one night in confidence that she did not care if Charles was indiscreet, because the protection of his name meant she was free to write now, and to protest, and to do all the things their father would never have allowed her to.

Harry spent the summer with them, showing not a hint of fear at completing the crossing, and their mother doted on the boy when she wasn't abed with a malady Beatrice blamed on her broken heart. He said nothing on the subject and did his job, played at being the dutiful son and husband, and sent a letter full of English banknotes to Edward's parents, under the guise of an old friend who had had a good time of it, and wanted to repay his gambling debts. They wouldn't believe it perhaps, but he could think of no better excuse, and before he had the opportunity to think up a pretence to visit in person war was upon them, and his mother was gone, and every day was a fight for survival.

The screams in the trenches were the same as the screams in the water, desperate and frightened, shrouded with the certain knowledge they had been forsaken. Yet he hadn't been able to refuse, to let down the memory of his uncles' exploits in the Zulu and the Boer wars. So he tried again and again to cheer his men, to fill their minds with dreams of the green fields of home, and the sweethearts waiting for them, not the reality of crushing poverty and marriages of convenience. Perhaps it worked, perhaps it didn't; the look on their faces matched his own, when they had to go over the top and face the enemy.

They hailed him a war hero on his return to England, as though any of it had had a purpose, and the life of one man was worth more than that of any other.

Harold survived his own ordeal, at a price, and though he would laugh and say that what was a left hand when one had a right, James knew that to the end of his days he missed the piano, and would have given anything to play again. Business was doing well, a result of the demand for munitions, and, with his debts repaid, he began to arrange for Harry to take control, when the time came, and Beatrice kissed his forehead and told him that she was sorry, but there was someone else, and that he too would be happy, one day. Josephine cut her hair daringly short, and smoked in his presence, and told him that she and Baxter were living apart, but it didn't bother her. He stayed with her for months, leaning heavily on his cane when he wasn't confined to the chair, and watched Eddie tear about the grounds, not a care in the world.

His leg improved, eventually, and he traveled to Wales by train, watching the green fields speed past his window and wondering just how many of his men had made it home to happiness. Mrs. Jenkins met him with a smile, for all the loss she had suffered, and his heart ached to see the little house Edward had grown up in, and the black framed photograph of him on the mantelpiece, flanked either side by those of his uniformed brothers. Edward's sister's husband had been another casualty, he learned, and Mr. Jenkins said little, though it was obvious how deeply each of their deaths had affected him.

“Eddie never made a wager in his life,” Edward's sister said, knowing, “but I'm glad to meet you. He always spoke so very highly of you.” Her own little girl clung to her legs, shy, and when Evan, the eldest, returned home from work the resemblance was so striking it was almost physically painful.

“He would have liked you to have this,” Mrs. Jenkins said to him before he left, pressing a well worn bible into his hands, the bookplate inscribed in a young, but still scrupulously neat hand. The thoughtfulness brought a lump to his throat, for he had long feared that this woman must hate him, because were it not for him, Edward would never have been anywhere near the _Titanic_. As if she could read his mind she went on,

“I wonder, often, if perhaps it was a blessing, him making that trip with you.” The shock must have shown on his face, but she did not react to it. “Edward was a good boy, a quiet boy. He wasn't cut out for war, not the way it is now. Years of needless death and destruction.” She shook her head, dabbed at her eyes. “God always knows the strengths and the limits of his flock.”

It made so great an impression he thought of little else for days afterward, puzzling it over and over in his mind until the meaning seemed obvious. He had been spared not to live up to memories, nor to live forever in the past. He had been spared, he confessed quietly, with Josephine smiling her approval, to be happy, to make a difference. There was only one way he could do it. He couldn't live frightened of what people would say, of society's censure. He couldn't live in anyone's shadow.

He had to be his own man.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, feel free to chat / hit me with prompts over on Tumblr [@serenwib](http://serenwib.tumblr.com/) or Twitter [@falsteloj](https://twitter.com/falsteloj). :)


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